The new documentary Hit So Hard tracks Hole drummer Patty Schemel on her dizzying trajectory from rock goddess to an addict who sold her body for crack and smack. The film showcases her close relationship with Kurt Cobain, and the footage of Cobain and Courtney Love is beyond intimate as we see jolting images of the couple sprawled in the playpen with their daughter, Frances Bean.
But Hit So Hard is ultimately Schemel’s story, and much of what we see Schemel shot on her Hi8 camera while traveling around the world on Hole’s notorious Live Through This tour in 1994 and 1995. (The album was released just four days after Cobain’s suicide; the tour was postponed due to Hole bassist Kristen Pfaff’s heroin-overdose death.) The band’s dysfunctional dynamic, not excluding drinking and drugging, causes pain and chaos, and eventually Schemel is driven from the band after a record label–ordained producer kicks her out of the studio. From there, she picks up gigs with bands like Juliette Lewis and Pink but spends most of a decade in the blaze and blur of addiction.
But this is a redemption tale. And director P. David Ebersole adds cathartic interviews with Schemel, band mates Love, Eric Erlandson and Melissa Auf De Mar along with commentary by other female rock trailblazers like Phranc and drummers Debbi Peterson (The Bangles) and Gina Schock (The Go-Gos) to create a well-rounded and heart-wrenching version of rock’s familiar from-fame-to-flameout theme and the portrait of a drummer who now, at age 45, has sobriety, a wife and a daughter and owns and runs Dog Rocker Dog Care.
“My story really isn’t that unique, except maybe the part of being in a rock band.”
It’s hard to reconcile the behind-the-scenes dread with the drug-addled Grunge music that was seminal for so many. Even Eddie Vedder once said, “Any generation that would pick Kurt or me as its spokesman, that generation must be really fucked up.” But in Hit So Hard, Schemel proves herself a survivor and well worth looking up to.
Why did you shoot all that footage?
My music and my band were taking me around the world and I wanted to document what I was seeing—something I could show my friends and family. And maybe I was also thinking I’m not going to remember a lot of this ,considering the state I was in, you know. So it was something to look back on.
You admit in your interviews some things that are very brave, and I was struck by how your time on camera seems like one giant share. Why did you choose to reveal so much so publicly?
I was really conflicted at the beginning. When David and I decided to do something with the footage, I was going to share my story but not in such a detailed way. But when there were things I was apprehensive about, he explained that what happened is such a big part of how my life is today. And since I trusted him and knew he wouldn’t exploit it, I felt like I had to go for it.
I also felt like my story really isn’t that unique, except maybe the part of being in a rock band. So I wanted to share something that lots of people could connect with.
So much about recovery and sobriety is about grief whether or not people die. But for you, there was so much grief—the loss of your friend Kurt Cobain, band mate Kristen Pfaff, your career. How do you cope with those losses today?
That grief was also a reason I wanted to tell my story. Yes, I have a lot of friends from that time who I miss and love. They died and I survived and I had a real need to talk about my perspective of that time.
Even being able to feel anything was such a slow process for me. I really didn’t even know what I felt until I was clean and sober for a few years and unpacked the whole thing and began to understand. But having been sober for the last seven years, I’m grateful that I can actually now identify what I feel, which is something I never could do when I was using.
Another big loss was in 1998 when Michael Beinhorn, who was hired to produce Celebrity Skin, did everything in his power to break you down and get you to quit so he could hire Journey drummer Deen Castronovo for the studio session. No one in the band had your back at all. It seems like that was a turning point and not in a good way.
For me, being an addict and an alcoholic, that cut right down into the disease where it lives: that I’m not good enough. It just triggered all the negatives that pop up. Those same feelings are why I started drinking and using when I was 12. It validated everything I thought I knew about myself, and I felt completely betrayed by my band.
I found out later that it wasn’t even about me: That’s what this producer does, and this was going to happen no matter who I was. But at the time it was my entire world blowing up.
So I was like, screw you guys, I’m done and now I have the biggest reason to get loaded and drop out of the world.
How long did it take you get sober after that?
It took about seven years. It wasn’t like in the film, where I woke up one day clean and sober. I went to dozens of rehabs and detoxes. But what worked the last time is what you hear in meetings all the time—“You are going to end up losing everything”—and I did. This time it wasn’t about going to rehab because I had an intervention or getting clean because I had to get back on the road or to please someone else. It was real surrender.
“Courtney got me into rehab a lot. She has her own pain around addiction, but I don’t know why she was always willing to help me.”
What were your drugs of choice?
Heroin and crack cocaine. Sexy, yeah. I just kept experimenting by trying more and more drugs that led me to this combination, which eventually led me to the street.
You’d think Courtney was the ultimate qualifier but she was also someone who saved your ass on many occasions and kept track of what you were up to. There’s even a scene in the film where she describes playing a phone trick on you that busts you for scoring while you were living on the streets. What do you think is her motivation?
She did that kind of crap all the time. We always said she should work for the CIA or something. She helped me get into rehab a lot. Of course she understands addiction and has her own pain around it, but I don’t know why she was always willing to help me. Even that day I left the studio she said to me, “You can allow this to happen and then come back to the band and tour. Or you can go and score and go down that road.” I chose to score.
Well, the film points out that a band can be just like a dysfunctional family. Maybe Courtney was kind of momma bear? And what role did you play in the family?
Courtney was the don’t-poke-the-bear bear. Everyone was walking on eggshells. Eric was the one who kept everything in line. He knew the details, the schedule and the music—that was his role. I was the one who wanted to make things lighter. I made jokes, kept things easy and for a long time I was able to keep my addiction out of the mix. I could slip under the radar because there were other things going on that were far more dramatic.
You reveal in the movie that you come from a family of alcoholics. How did that history influence you?
Both of my parents were alcoholics in recovery. They were very old school. This was in the late 1960s and drunks would come to the house and have coffee in the kitchen. I knew all about it, but I always thought, “I’m not like my parents.” In my kid mind, I thought they were like that because they were from Brooklyn—they talked funny, they came from the big city, and they drank and got better.
Did you grow up hearing the language of recovery?
Yeah, our guideline for living was based on the 12 steps. My spirituality was never God but “God as you understand him.” And I knew all, that but I still drank.
“I don’t mess around because I know if I get loaded I might as well go straight downtown to the street and stay there.”
I believe it’s genetics. I could break it down to a nature/nurture thing—that I drank because I was gay—but I know now that this was inside me and once I discovered drugs and alcohol everything seemed to be right. It was like I had a missing limb and drugs and alcohol made me complete.
When you moved to Seattle and fell into the Grunge movement, it was a lot about anger, disenfranchisement and, as Phranc points out, flannel. But was it also a safe community for you to come out in?
Yes, for me it was a lot easier because my parents were very supportive. I was more freaked out by it than they were, and when I found my way to Seattle, I found punk rock and the freaks who were like-minded. I felt safe with my people and inside my band. It wasn’t a smooth ride, but I had it easier than lots of other young gay kids.
But “Grunge” was really about anti-discipline, and that fit nicely with me too. It was in a lot of ways about our misery. That explosion of our music wasn’t about the subject matter—it was an expression of some heavy shit going on.
Which came first, the music or the heavy shit?
It’s probably a little bit of both.
Now that you are a parent, how has that changed your perspective on recovery?
I couldn’t really have healthy relationships until I was sober. But what really helped me was when I started to take care of dogs. I love dogs, and doing that as a 9-to -5 job gave me structure early in recovery. It also gave me self-esteem and helped me come out of myself and not think so much about me.
So now with my daughter, it’s completely about her and her needs, and there’s a lot of joy. I can identify these good feelings and feel something that is not manufactured by something I shot up.
You say animals helped give you self-esteem, but for anyone looking at your life that might be a surprise. You were in this seminal band, you were a rock star and a trailblazing drummer, and you still felt like shit?
You reach for things that you think are going to make you feel better: “If I had that, everything would be OK and I would be fixed. If I were in a band and made a living playing drums,” and then “if I were on the cover of Rolling Stone” but that doesn’t work, either.
I think it’s that way for Courtney and maybe it was that way for Kurt, too. Everyone says, “He had a baby, he sold all these records, why would he kill himself?” Well, those things weren’t what he needed.
One thing that keeps a lot of addicts who are artists from getting sober is the fear that sobriety might damage their creativity. Did you ever have that fear?
I didn’t only because I knew drugs affected my playing in a negative way, especially in the physical part of keeping up. And once the drugs entered me, I just wanted to check out and be alone.
Now that I’ve started playing again in a band called the Cold and the Lovely, I’ve come back to drumming and fallen back in love with it.
Why do you love drumming so much?
“You reach for these things like rock fame that you think are going to make you feel better, but they don’t.”
First, it’s a thing that girls don’t do. I’ve said it a million times, but it’s aggressive and I like the release of playing and being physical. That’s what drew me to the drums when I was a kid. Girls are led to instruments like the flute or the clarinet. I went straight to the drums.
But always, being a female drummer I’ve felt like I had to prove myself. And in Hole, we had to prove to everyone that we weren’t just Courtney’s novelty act. Everyone knew who she was, but they didn’t know who the band was. We constantly had to prove we were a real band and that Kurt had nothing to do with that.
When you look back on those times, do you feel you still know that version of yourself?
It’s like I was a different person, but I also know that even though it seems so far away, it’s just one drink or a drug away. I don’t mess around because if I get loaded I might as well go straight downtown to the street and stay there because the horror of losing everything is just too big.
Hit So Hard is in release nationwide. To find out dates and times in your city, go here. The DVD will be available June 5.
Stacie Stukin is a Los Angeles journalist whose work has appeared in publications like the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times and Natural Health. This is her first piece for The Fix. You can read other musings on her blog L.A. Mandala: Living la vida yoga.